S-L-U-T.

slut : (noun)
1. a dirty, slovenly woman.
2. an immoral or dissolute woman; prostitute.

What makes a person a slut? Everyone has their own individual morals that dictate their actions. To one person, telling white lies is unacceptable. To another, cheating on a test is forgivable. And to someone else, cheating on a boyfriend or girlfriend is understandable. In general, there is a "to each their own" mentality, unless the person's moral code slips enough to blip off the law's radar.

But when it comes to sexual relationships, somehow the idea that everyone has a distinct moral compass is blurred. There are even labels for it. "Slut," "ho," "hussy," "whore."

There is a perception of Gay World that everyone in it casts a blind eye to promiscuity. This goes along with the "gays are wild animals who would just as likely hump you as look at you" world view. But then there are same-sex couples who are in monogamous committed relationships for years. There are heterosexual relationships that don't even last a long weekend.

Should allowances be made for gay men? Should their sexual relationships be held to a different standard, if there are other gay men who are engaging in the same promiscuous activity or worse?

A very dear Friend of mine met a Guy at a club a week and a half ago. They danced and drunkenly made out and exchanged numbers at the end of the night. Two nights later, they had their first date. Guy spent the night at Friend's house. After the first date. They have since had three additional dates, and Guy spent the night after each one.

Does this make him a slut? Or does it just make him gay?

On the National Scene.

Assistant attorney general blogs against gay student.

.........excuse me for a minute.



Let's just take a moment to talk about the INCREDIBLY unprofessional aspect of the story. The assistant attorney general, Andrew Shirvell, is attacking a college student. He is drawing Perez Hilton-esque rainbow flags and swastikas on the student's pictures. He is attacking him on a public forum. And, by watching the video interview with Anderson Cooper, Shirvell is insecure -- his eyes don't meet the camera, he stutters, he namecalls. He calls the student "Satan's representative." He's a 40-something year old cyberbully.

On the gay issue -- the college student is Chris Armstrong, the president of the student assembly at the University of Michigan. Shirvell is accusing Armstrong of being a "radical homosexual activist" who is advancing his "gay agenda."

The agenda in question? "Armstrong has supported gender-neutral housing at the university for transgender students who haven't had sexual reassignment surgery." However, Shirvell's blog attacks Armstrong for "going back on a campaign promise he made to minority students; engaging in "flagrant sexual promiscuity" with another male member of the student government; sexually seducing and influencing "a previously conservative [male] student" so much so that the student, according to Shirvell, "morphed into a proponent of the radical homosexual agenda;" hosting a gay orgy in his dorm room in October 2009; and trying to recruit incoming first year students "to join the homosexual 'lifestyle.' ""

Andrew Shirvell? Go fuck yourself.

Gay panic.

Guess what, guys. Just because a man is gay does not mean he wants in your pants.

There is also no way to catch gay.

If a gay guy is looking at you, he's not necessarily checking you out.

Nor is he conspiring to catch you unaware and have his way with you.

You also can't tell a gay person just by looking at them. Sometimes it helps, true. But not everyone wears their gay on their sleeve.

"Gay" is also not synonymous with "stupid." A situation cannot be gay. Unless maybe you're at a Lady Gaga concert.

Gay panic is not an excuse for ignorance and hate. Don't be afraid of the gays. They're very nice and will compliment your shoes.

Dating duds.

One of my best friends is eager for a relationship. He can spot a guy across the room and have their wedding planned out, down to their colors being blush and bashful. All he talks about is how much he wants a boyfriend and how every second that passes without one has him getting closer and closer to joining me in Cat Lady Land.

So every date is a possible "happy ever after" scenario. But very few of them turn out the way he'd like them to. Take this date, for example:

"So I went on a date with this guy and, I don't know, it just didn't work out."

"Why?"

"He was just sort of annoying, you know?"

"What did he do?"

"He told me that my shoes didn't match my shirt."

Oh no he DIDN'T.

You may think you know what you like. But you could be wrong.

If I had a quarter for every guy I have liked who came out to me, I would be able to afford to retire by now.

My gaydar definitely needs to be recalibrated. I have an "innocent until proven gay" policy. Unless you are prancing around in a glitter top and singing Cher songs, I will generally wait to pass judgment. That is about the only case in which I don't pass judgment, so feel lucky.

This has led to some awkward romantic encounters. There was the time when I was about to confess my undying love to a friend at dinner when he pointed out a beautiful boy at the table next to us. The guy I went to dinner with, only to meet up with his boyfriend later that night. The guy who asked me to pose as his girlfriend when his parents came into town. And, my personal favorite, the guy who swore that he was into girls and emphatically claimed that he "loves boobs" and at the bar that night, I came back from the bathroom to find him making out with a man.

The celebrities that I love aren't safe, either.. When Neil Patrick Harris publicly came out, six different people called me to express their condolences. I spent the morning after Jonathan Groff's announcement on the phone with friends, in too much of a state of shock to work.

Which leads me to this past weekend. I saw two of my good friends in a play at my local community theater, and my attention was drawn to a particular actor who is new to the theater, D_____. He had a great jawline and, as weird as this sounds, a really nice nose. He was also very funny and had a great comic delivery.

After the show, I was talking to one of my friends and I mentioned that I had been admiring D_____. He snorted a bit and said, "Ohhh, D_____." When I pressed him further, he admitted, "W__ and I think that D_____'s sexuality is....questionable."

To which I answered, "OF COURSE YOU DO. OF COURSE."

Watch out, men of the world. You may think you're straight. But if I get my eyes on you, you'll suddenly discover that you're horribly wrong.

Song for the Dumped

When the gays drop you, they drop you hard.

I was in a choir in college, and became very close with a guy, C____, in the all-male choir. We became borderline inseparable, and we bonded over gossiping about our respective choirs. He became one of my best friends in college.

He wasn't always an easy person to get along with. He was very blunt and would say exactly what was on his mind. He didn't believe in hiding his feelings, so if he was annoyed, everyone around him would quickly become annoyed as well. He was vicious if he felt that he was wronged, almost to the point of becoming vindictive. He had a way of cutting people out of his life that was almost clinical.

But C____ was still one of the people that I loved to be around. I had great times with him, whether we were going on adventures, throwing dinner parties at his house, or just hanging out and talking.

Until one fateful day when I commented to another friend that C____ had offended me with something he had said. Somehow this got back to him, and C____ was incensed because he felt that I was "gossiping about" him. Ohhhh shit.

It began slowly. I would call him and he wouldn't answer. "No big deal," I naively thought to myself. "He's probably just busy with work. He'll call back."

Then I would text him, to no avail. "Well, maybe his phone is broken. Or maybe his texting feature has been turned off. Or maybe his fingers are broken and he can't text!" Always the optimist.

Then came the final solution. Facebook. I sent him a message, a literary masterpiece, an epic poem about how sorry I was for whatever had offended him, extolling him, listing at least seven reasons as to why I was a horrible person.

Nothing. No response whatsoever.

I was crushed. A large part of my life had completely disappeared for absolutely no reason whatsoever. I went through a stunted version of the five stages of grief, most of which involved alcohol and french fries. It took me a long time to accept the fact that I had been dropped. Kicked to the curb. Dumped. Erased.

In the immortal words of Second City's Sassy Gay Friend, I had to write a sad poem in my journal and move on. And I did. Well, I wrote angry "WHAT AN ASSHOLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" entries in my journal and moved on. C____ and I ran into each other a few times over the next year, before I moved home from college. We had the same circle of friends, being so deeply entrenched in the choral activities office. It slowly became less and less awkward. I like to think that he realized that it was his loss. Because I am damn good queer dear, and after two years he has yet to find a suitable replacement for me. So C____ can suck it.

In the Beginning

When I was a kid, I was in love with Rainbow Brite.

I'm pretty sure that's where my love of the fabulous began.



My parents had a brown couch that I would pretend was Starlite, my trusty steed. I would sit across the top of the couch and pretend to galloping along rainbows or streets paved with gold or just around the living room, I wasn't picky. I would make my brother or an unsuspecting neighbor kid be Twink, my sidekick. (Yes, Twink. Hello, gay agenda.) And I was Rainbow Brite, off to save the Color Kids. I told people that my favorite color was rainbow and that I was the queen of the rainbows. I was five, so it was cute. There was also a period of time where every cookie my mother made had to be in the shape of a star, and I pretended they were my star sprinkles.

I would also put on theatrical shows in my living room, singing the big hits of the time; typically any Disney song that struck my fancy. Again, my brother would be my backup singer. Often in one of my nightgowns. I had a yellow Beauty and the Beast nightgown that I was particularly fond of putting him in.

I started dance lessons when I was three, choir when I was eleven, and theater when I was eighteen. If that isn't a gay man's mating call, I don't know what is.

Hey girl heyyyy.

God bless my boys.

It has been suggested that I am a gay man in a woman's body. That I give off a gay pheromone that attracts every gay man in a five mile radius. That I collect gay men like spinsters collect cats.

With gay men comes gay drama. This is a place where I can keep track of my divas before I wreck my divas. Because there is only so much drama I can deal with before I need a Liza Minelli album and a bottle of wine.